Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/214

196 She saw, and strait the Purple Beams that grace The rosie Morning, vanish'd from her Face; A deadly Pale her wonted Bloom invades, And veils the lowring Skies with mournful Shades. But when his Limbs upon the Pile were laid, The last kind Duty that by Friends is paid, His Mother to the Skies directs her Flight, Nor cou'd sustain to view the doleful Sight: But frantick, with her loose neglected Hair, Hastens to Jove, and falls a Suppliant there. O King of Heav'n, O Father of the Skies, The weeping Goddess passionately cries, Tho' I the meanest of Immortals am, And fewest Temples celebrate my Fame, Yet still a Goddess, I presume to come, Within the Verge of your Etherial Dome: Yet still may plead some Merit, if my Light With Purple Dawn controuls the Pow'rs of Night; If from a Female Hand that Virtue springs, Which to the Gods, and Men such Pleasure brings. Yet I nor Honours seek, nor Rites Divine, Nor for more Altars, or more Fanes repine; Oh! that such Trifles were the only Cause, From whence Aurora's Mind its Anguish draws! For Memnon lost, my dearest only Child, With weightier Grief my heavy Heart is fill'd; My Warrior Son! that liv'd but half his Time, Nipt in the Bud, and blasted in his Prime; Who for his Uncle early took the Field, And by Achilles' fatal Spear was kill'd. To whom but Jove shou'd I for Succour come? For Jove alone cou'd fix his cruel Doom. O Sov'reign of the Gods, accept my Pray'r, Grant my Request, and sooth a Mother's Care; On the Deceas'd some solemn Boon bestow, To expiate the Loss, and ease my Woe. Jove,